CHAPTER 12
MATEO
IT'S BEEN FORTY-SEVEN hours since I fled Groover's apartment like it was on fire. Forty-seven hours, six ignored texts, two dodged calls, and approximately eight thousand existential crises.
I'm not avoiding him, per se. I'm just... strategically unavailable while I sort through the emotional tsunami currently drowning my brain. Totally different.
My phone buzzes again from its burial spot under my pillow. I ignore it with the dedication of a monk who's taken a vow of technological celibacy. It's probably Groover again, asking if I'm alive or if I've been kidnapped by anthropology-hating aliens.
I should answer him. A normal person would answer him. But every time I think about typing a response, my brain helpfully replays The Incident in 4K ultra-high-definition: me, straddling Groover's lap like I was auditioning for Magic Mike: The Academic Edition, getting hard from kissing him, then fleeing with all the dignity of a cartoon character leaving a dust outline behind.
Not my proudest moment.
I groan and roll over, staring at my laptop screen where I've been conducting what can only be described as the most confused Google search session in human history. Current tab: " Am I bisexual quiz: 25 questions to determine your sexuality !"
My search history is a map of my mental breakdown:
" enjoyed kissing a guy am I gay "
" how to know if you're bisexual "
" is getting hard from kissing a guy normal "
" bisexuality sudden onset possible?"
" kinsey scale test online free "
The quiz on my screen asks if I've ever had a crush on someone of the same sex. I stare at it, cursor hovering between "Yes" and "No" like it's the most important decision of my life.
Does Groover count as a crush? I mean, I think about him constantly, get stupidly happy when he texts me, and apparently want to climb him like a tree when we kiss, but that could just be... friendship? Very enthusiastic friendship?
God, I'm pathetic.
I click "Maybe" and move to the next question: "Do you find yourself physically attracted to people of the same gender?"
Well, I didn't think so until two days ago when I got a boner from kissing my fake boyfriend, so...
The sound of my bedroom door opening sends me into panic mode. I slam my laptop shut so fast I'm surprised it doesn't break in half.
"Dude, what are you looking at? Porn?" Carlos stands in the doorway, eyebrow raised. "Because we have an agreement about headphones."
"Nothing! Research! For class!" My voice reaches a pitch previously achievable only by prepubescent boys and dogs whistles.
Carlos looks supremely unconvinced. "Uh-huh. What class requires you to slam your laptop shut like you're hiding state secrets?"
"Contemporary... Anthropological... Methods?" It comes out as a question, which doesn't help my case.
"Right," Carlos drawls, leaning against the doorframe. "So it has nothing to do with the fact that you've been holed up in here since your 'practice session' with Hockey Boy?"
The air quotes he puts around "practice session" could win awards for most judgmental punctuation.
"I've been busy," I mutter, shoving my laptop under a textbook like that makes it less suspicious.
"Yeah, busy avoiding your fake boyfriend and having what appears to be a sexual identity crisis." Carlos crosses the room and flops down on the foot of my bed. "You know you can talk to me about it, right? Instead of asking Google if you're gay?"
"I wasn't—" I start to protest, then deflate. "How did you know?"
"Because you forgot to clear your search history on our living room PC yesterday," he says with exaggerated patience. "My personal favorite was ' does liking a stubble burn make me gay ?'"
I groan and pull my pillow over my face, contemplating the sweet release of death by feather suffocation. "Kill me now."
"Nope. You're stuck living through this awkward phase like the rest of us." He pulls the pillow away. "So. The kissing went well, I take it?"
"Depends on your definition of 'well,'" I mumble. "If you mean 'did I get turned on kissing a guy and then run away like I'd just seen a ghost,' then yes. It went spectacularly well."
Carlos lets out a low whistle. "Wow. Straight to third base?"
"What? No!" I sit up indignantly. "It was just kissing! And... maybe some light grinding. But clothes remained fully on and functional!"
"And you liked it."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "I don't know! Maybe? Yes? It was confusing!"
"What's confusing about it?" Carlos asks, infuriatingly calm. "You kissed a hot guy, you got turned on. Seems pretty straightforward to me."
"But I'm straight!" I protest, though the word sounds less certain than it did two days ago.
"Are you though?"
"Yes! I mean, I was. I've only ever dated women."
"And now you've made out with Groover and enjoyed it. So maybe you're bi." He shrugs like he's suggesting I try a new breakfast cereal, not completely restructuring my sexual identity.
"I can't be bi," I argue weakly. "It was just... method acting. Getting into character for the role."
Carlos snorts. "Yeah, and Meryl Streep sleeps with all her co-stars too. It's called commitment to the craft."
"This isn't funny!"
"It's a little funny," he counters. "Come on, Mateo. It's not the end of the world. It's the twenty-twenties. Nobody cares."
"I care! My family cares!" The words burst out before I can stop them, revealing the real fear lurking beneath the surface.
Carlos's expression softens. "Your family would be okay with it."
I let out a hollow laugh. "Maybe. Dad's pretty traditional..."
"Your sister literally has a rainbow flag in her dorm room. I've seen it on her Instagram."
"Yeah, but she's not his only son," I say quietly. "You know how Italian fathers are about their sons."
Carlos sits up straighter. "Okay, first of all, that's a stereotype that you, as an anthropology student, should know better than to perpetuate. Second, your dad loves you. He's not going to disown you for being bisexual."
"You don't know that," I mutter, though deep down I know he's right. My parents have never been anything but supportive. It's just easier to blame external factors than admit I'm terrified of what this means for my own self-perception.
Carlos sighs. "Look, you don't have to figure it all out today. Sexuality is fluid. Labels are helpful sometimes, but they're not mandatory prison sentences. Maybe you're bi, maybe you're straight with a Groover exception, maybe you're still discovering stuff about yourself. All of that is fine."
I stare at the ceiling, processing. "So what do I do now?"
"Well, for starters, maybe answer the poor guy's texts? He probably thinks you hate him."
Guilt washes over me. Groover didn't do anything wrong. If anything, he was patient and understanding while I had my meltdown.
"And then what?" I ask. "Pretend nothing happened?"
"Or," Carlos suggests, "you could talk to him like an adult. Revolutionary concept, I know."
"And say what? 'Sorry I ran out after getting a boner from kissing you, I'm having an identity crisis, how was your day?'"
"Maybe less blunt than that, but essentially, yes."
My phone buzzes again from under the pillow. With a sigh, I retrieve it.
Sophia from PR : Team leaving Friday. Need confirmation you're joining by tonight for flight arrangements .
Right. The away games. I'd completely forgotten in the midst of my crisis. Part of our agreement was accompanying the team to at least one away series to maintain the relationship image.
Me : I'll be there .
I hit send before I can overthink it. There. Commitment made. No backing out now.
"You're going on a road trip?" Carlos asks, reading over my shoulder.
"Apparently." I toss the phone aside. "Two days in a hotel with the guy I'm actively avoiding. What could go wrong?"
"Look at the bright side," Carlos offers. "If the sexual tension gets too much, you can always just jump his bones and solve two problems at once."
I throw my pillow at his head. "Not helpful!"
"I'm just saying," he dodges, laughing, "you might actually enjoy being bisexual. Twice the dating pool, twice the fun."
"I hate you," I mutter, but there's no heat in it.
"No, you don't." He stands up, heading for the door. "You're going to be fine, Mateo. And for what it's worth, I think Groover's good for you. Fake relationship or not."
After he leaves, I reopen my laptop and stare at the quiz I was taking. Twenty-five questions to determine my sexuality, as if the complexity of human desire could be reduced to a multiple-choice test with a neat percentage at the end.
I close the browser without finishing. Carlos is right—I don't need to label myself right this minute. But I do need to face Groover before this trip.
I pick up my phone and open our text thread.
Groover (2 days ago): Hey, you get home okay?
Groover (2 days ago): About what happened... we should probably talk.
Groover (yesterday): Mateo? Just checking you're alive.
Groover (yesterday): Sophia mentioned the trip. Let me know if you're still coming.
Groover (10 hours ago): At least let me know you're okay. Getting worried.
Groover (1 hour ago): If I don't hear from you by tonight I'm assuming you've been kidnapped and will be contacting the authorities. Or worse, your roommate.
I take a deep breath and type:
Me : Sorry for going AWOL. Not kidnapped, just processing. Yes, I'm still coming.
His response is almost immediate.
Groover : Good to know you're alive. We don't have to talk about what happened if you don't want to.
His understanding just makes me feel worse. I owe him more than that.
Me : We probably should talk. But maybe not over text.
Groover : Fair enough. We can talk on the trip. No pressure.
Groover : And Mateo? It's all good. Really.
I stare at those words, wondering if he really means them or if he's just being nice. Either way, I've committed now. Away games await, along with the conversation I've been avoiding for forty-seven hours and counting.
As Carlos would say: What's the worst that could happen?
Actually, don't answer that. My imagination is creative enough without the assistance.